Day 8: July 27th, 2011

I awake this morning to the sound of birds chirping, feet shuffling across the ground just outside my window, people talking and laughing…   The bright sun, still low in the sky, shines in through the open windows, beckoning me to leave the comfort of my cozy sleeping bag as it slowly begins to warm up the chilly hut.  I pull the purple mummy bag up tight around my neck and breath deeply, taking in the crisp, cool air.  I lay here, taking in the sounds and smells, staring up at the strips of wood that hold in place the mattress in the bunk above me.

Eight days earlier, we had arrived in Africa.  As our flight approached the runway, I had gotten my first glimpse of a continent which I had seen only in movies and read about in books.  For 29 years I had built up in my mind what it would be like to travel here;  what it would look like, smell like, sound like…  And on that flight, as roads, towns, rivers, and hills began coming into view below us, I felt like I was in a dream; like this couldn't possibly be happening….that the ground I was seeing couldn't possibly be Africa.

Now, eight days later, I lay here in bed thinking about my experience so far.  In my mind, I think back through a few of the highlights.   I think about the walking stick I had received as part of our unforgettable welcome ceremony that first night.  I think about my first look at the African night sky, bursting with stars from horizon to horizon.  I think about our trip north to Victoria Falls, our Sunset Cruise on the Zambezi River, my pathetic attempt to bargain for souvenirs in an open market, and our safari in Botswana.  

I think about the past two days that we had spent in local schools, rotating from classroom to classroom, trying to squeeze as much out of every minute of our time with the local children and teachers as possible.  I think about the night Sarah and I had spent with a local woman, Vie, in her hut as we prepared Sadza for dinner, sang songs, and as she laughed at our incessant need to fill the peaceful silence by asking questions and making small talk.  I think about our long walk the next morning on our way to school, on footpaths through the Matopo hills.

I think about how, last night, on the way back from watching a beautiful sunset on a nearby mountaintop, I had foolishly attempted to jump a gap between two boulders, had misjudged the distance of the jump, and landed horribly wrong on my feet, badly bruising them both to the point where it was almost unbearable to walk.  I think about how pathetic I had felt as I limped through the night, following my hiking partners as they scouted out ahead, and as we got progressively more lost, confused, and frustrated.  I think about the sheer joy I had felt - after being lost and in pain for close to three hours - when we stumbled across a hut whose occupants agreed to help us find our way home.  And I think about the relief, exhaustion, and warmth I felt when I laid down in my bed after we had been "rescued."

I lay here now, in the bright morning light, looking down at the bandages wrapped around both of my feet, thinking about our amazing experience so far, and last night's sudden turn of events.  My mind begins to wander.  

Slowing down has never came easily to me.  Growing up, my mom was constantly reminding me to slow down, to look around, to chew my food, to live in the moment, to breath…  and I never really learned.  I still get caught up in this world of constant "Go, go go!"  It takes a conscious effort for me to truly relax…or it takes an injury.

So I'm injured.  In Africa.  I will definitely be slowing down now.  This sucks.  Things had been going so well!  Now, I'm going to miss out on so much in the next couple of days.  Of all the places to be injured and incapacitated…  And then the trip home is going to be miserable…  I don't even want to think about having to endure the 9-10 hour layovers in the Johannesburg and London airports with injured feet.  "What a terrible way to end this amazing trip," I think to myself.  

Then Hannah comes in to check on my feet.  Her warm smile, as she unwraps and rewraps my feet, cheers me up a little.  Norma (one of our wonderful hosts) comes in with breakfast.  She doesn't seem to feel sorry for me at all.  Her dry sense of humor, as she comments on how pathetic I am, makes me laugh.  Setting a tray full of steaming hot food on my lap, she says dismissively "Well, I guess God wants you to hang out at camp today!" and walks out.  

I realize that lying around feeling sorry for myself all day isn't going to fly.  I remember that our hosts, Chris and Norma, have lived in Zimbabwe since 1953.  They've been through some unimaginable hardships.  While it's always been difficult living in rural Zimbabwe, for the past several years it's been a constant struggle for them and their neighbors to survive the oppression and corruption of the current government.   Their daily lives are consumed with helping to battle the effects of a widespread AIDS epidemic that has ravaged the country.  Taking a few seconds to remind myself of this helps to change my perspective.  I grab my walking stick and hobble out of the hut.  

By this time the rest of the group has left for the schools, and only a few people remain in camp.  Sam, Mason, Matt, and Micah are hard at work building a new stairway up into the attic of the dining room.  Norma, Rentia and a few of their hired workers busy themselves with setting up solar panels, doing dishes, and washing clothes. I find a chair on the porch of the main building and get to work sorting and folding socks, trying to make myself useful.  

Later, I find a shaded spot in the backside of camp and spend the remainder of the day lying around, playing guitar, reading, eating food that is brought to me, and drifting in and out of sleep.  Once in a while someone comes by to check on me, or to chat, but otherwise I'm alone with my thoughts.  All of my fellow teachers are off at the schools, and I'm sure they're having an amazing time, but I'm now content being here.  I breath deeply.  I listen to the birds.  This place is healing.  

As the day unfolds, I find myself feeling extremely grateful.  Grateful for a random assortment of things…  Grateful that my bruised feet aren't broken legs, or worse.  Grateful to  be healthy.  Grateful to have parents.  Grateful to have a family that loves me and supports me.  Grateful to have a job that I love.  Grateful to not have to worry about where my next meal is going to come from.  Grateful to have good friends.  Grateful to have been given the opportunity to travel to this amazing place with these amazing people.  Grateful for music…

I begin to see my life differently.  Visiting a country that has been so deeply affected by poverty is a humbling experience.  These people have next to nothing in terms of personal possessions and yet they are content…happy even.  Their country has been run into the ground by the government.  Food shortages are common, power outages are frequent.  Most Zimbabwean citizens have no cars, no running water, no electricity, and very few possessions, yet the people we've met since we've arrived, have been nothing short of generous with what they do have.  

Growing up in a country full of privilege, it's all too easy to lose sight of the things that are important, to get lost in a race to get ahead, at the expense of our health, our relationships, and ultimately our happiness.

As I lay here on this cot, I look at my feet, and decide that I'm pretty happy to be here, in this very spot, injury and all.  The dull pain kinda sucks, and it pretty much takes me ten minutes to get to the bathroom and back, but all things considered, life is pretty good.  I can't complain.